Mama tsk-tsked beside me. Even Toby looked embarrassed. Barbara glared at Jesse. “Maybe you’re too drug-addled to remember, but somebody did just kill my ex-husband. And it probably wasn’t over a latte.’’

Jesse quickly hung her head. “Sorry, Barbara.’’ Her mumbled voice was barely audible. “You’re right.’’

Mama and I exchanged a glance. I put my mouth right next to her ear. “I thought that Barbara was Norman’s lowly assistant this morning, the way she was running after him.’’

“Me, too,’’ Mama whispered back.

Jesse’s head was still down, her hair a tent over her face. Toby and the assistant director were also busy trying to avoid meeting the gaze of the producer’s ex-wife.

“Looks like we had it wrong, Mama. Barbara Sydney is nobody’s assistant. She’s definitely the alpha dog of this Hollywood pack.’’

_____

I sat next to Carlos at a long plastic table under the catering tent. Norman’s murder had put a temporary hold on the morning’s movie-making. Carlos, awaiting the arrival of crime scene techs from the state lab, had a few moments for a coffee break.

“I couldn’t believe that little witch Jesse made such a big deal over coffee. This brew is fine.’’ I showed my nearly empty cup to him and Mama, who sat across from us. “Almost as tasty as a latte, in fact.’’

“What’s a latte?’’ Mama asked.

“It’s delicious.’’ I licked my lips.

“Wrong. It’s a fancy drink with more sugar and foamy milk than coffee, Rosalee,’’ Carlos countered. He favors the strong, black brew known as Cuban crack.

Mama had started to tell us to quit bickering, when a voice sounded above us. “Is this seat taken?’’

The newcomer’s melodious Southern drawl, more boarding school than backwoods, marked her as an outsider to the Hollywood crowd. One of us. Mama perked up, ready to play the down-home hostess.

“Sit right down, honey. We’d be pleased to share our table with you. I’m Rosalee Provenza, and this is my middle daughter, Mace.’’

The woman put down her coffee cup and nodded at me down the table. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.’’ She offered her hand to Mama, long, tapered fingers extended gracefully. Her chestnut-colored hair was sprinkled with gray.

As the drawling woman got comfortable, Mama nodded toward Carlos. “And this handsome man is Mace’s boyfriend. At least he is today.’’

“I’m Savannah. I’m married to Paul Watkins, the director.’’

Carlos slid his notebook onto the table.

She stiffened. “Are you a reporter?’’ The slightest edge crept into her voice.

“Nope. A detective.’’

She stared at him for a long moment, and then chuckled. “Well, honestly Carlos, I don’t know which one is worse.’’

Mama leaned toward her. “Oh, I think a reporter is worse, honey. Carlos is just trying to find out the truth. All those journalists want to do is dig up dirt.’’

“Sometimes it’s one and the same, Mama.’’

I leaned across the table and shook Savannah’s hand. Her grip was firm, but not too firm. She looked right at me with a hint of mischief in her eyes. I liked that about her, along with the fact that she hadn’t kneeled at Hollywood’s shrine to youth by dyeing her hair or zapping the laugh lines around her mouth.

Carlos stood up abruptly and announced he was getting a coffee refill. Savannah’s brow inched up. “He gets crazy during a case,’’ I apologized for him.

“He’s come a long way with his manners. But you have to remember, he is from Miamuh,’’ Mama said.

When Carlos was far enough away he couldn’t hear me gossiping, I asked her, “You know about what’s happened, right?’’

She nodded, her lips set in a grim line. “Barbara called and told me. It’s awful, isn’t it? I turned right around and came back to the set. I was already in Jacksonville this morning.’’

“Is that where you’re from?’’

“Only because my mama and daddy didn’t make it all the way to Georgia. I was born in the back seat of an old Ford at a rest stop along US Highway 1.’’ She grinned. “They named me Savannah anyway, since that’s where we were headed when we left Eau Gallie, Florida. Could have been worse. They could have called me Eau Gallie.’’

“Oh Golly!’’ Mama laughed, hands clapped to her heart. “Honey, that’s such a sweet story. Did your folks ever make it on up to Savannah?’’

She sipped at her coffee. “No. Daddy took up with a stripper and ended up leaving us in a $29-a-night hotel room when I was just six months old. It was Mama and me on our own after that. She got the job in the club that the stripper ran off and left.’’

We were quiet. I considered Savannah’s rich-looking loafers and tailored clothes, casual gray slacks and white linen blouse. Her hair was thick and glossy. Tastefully sized diamonds glittered at her ears, around her neck, and on her wedding ring finger. She’d traveled a long way from that $29-a-night hotel room.

Mama said, “Oh, I know all about bad husbands, honey. I’ve had one or two myself.’’

“Mama’s on Husband No. 5,” I said. “Sal’s a keeper though.’’

“That’s not fair, Mace! You know at least one of those husbands was a good man, but a bad match. And, of course, your daddy was my life’s love—until he up and died on me.’’

“On us, too, Mama.’’ It always irked me when she left out the part about three young girls also losing a father.

“Speaking of husbands …’’ Savannah must have sensed the tension between us on this subject. She smoothly changed it, Southern woman that she was. “Have y’all seen mine?’’

Mama pressed her lips together, stopping a stray word from issuing out. I took a quick look to make sure Carlos was still out of sight. And then I plunged in.

“After Mama and I found Norman’s body, the assistant director made a big deal about your husband being missing all morning.’’

“What’d he say?’’

Mama and I looked at each other. I hesitated, wondering how much I should reveal.

“Just tell her, Mace. Someone is bound to.’’ Mama said to Savannah, “My daughter’s an amateur detective. She’s already solved a couple of murders.’’

“My mama exaggerates,’’ I said, as Savannah eyed me suspiciously. “I’m staying out of this mess.’’

Glancing toward the serving line, I still didn’t see Carlos. He probably took his coffee to go. I took a deep breath and told her how Jonathan J. Burt had as good as called her husband a killer.

“Johnny Jaybird? That little twerp!’’

Savannah, imitating, bobbed her head. I immediately understood the assistant director’s nickname.

“His voice is squawky, too, just like a blue jay,’’ Mama said.

“Well, he’s squawking up the wrong tree this time,’’ Savannah said. “My husband has done just about every job there is on a movie set, from grip to script. Paul’s forgotten more than that little runt will ever know about film-making!’’

Savannah seemed to be working herself into a lather, defending her husband. Mama patted her hand. “Don’t worry, honey. If that Johnny Jaybird is trying to cast aspersions, the truth will win out.’’

“Paul wasn’t even scheduled to be on the set this morning. He was out scouting tomorrow’s location. Today, he’s shooting all afternoon, and into the evening. For all I know, that pint-sized creep took it upon himself to be Paul’s stand-in. What scene did he film?’’

I told her about the galloping and re-galloping horse.

“Figures. He fancies himself an action director.’’

“So where is your husband, then?’’

I was startled to hear Carlos asking the question. We’d been so wrapped up in our conversation, none of us had noticed him hunkered over a table off to our side, his back to us. That explained the quick departure. His plan all along had probably been to sneak back and eavesdrop. How long had he listened? He turned around, regarding the three of us over the rim of his coffee cup.

Savannah coolly met his eyes. “Paul is probably off tromping through the woods right now. He loves the natural side of Florida. He wants to do it justice in the movie. I’ll bet he’s sitting under a cypress tree somewhere, staring up through the needles at that beautiful blue sky and imagining how things were, back in the olden days.’’